


Rebellion

by TheJoysOfAMultishipper (Amemah)



Series: The Two Widows [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blink and Miss Reference to Sexual Act, Brainwashing, F/F, Hydra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amemah/pseuds/TheJoysOfAMultishipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>("They literally want us to be mindless killers, Novna. This shampoo is, like, my one act of rebellion. And having an illicit affair with you. But that's it, I swear!")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the last part!  
> Hope you like it:)
> 
> Let me know what you think?  
> Hugs <3
> 
> Tumblr: thejoysofamultishipper.tumblr.com

"Love is for children," She'd say, ignoring the ache in her bones and the growing desperation for something she can't remember, but just knows existed. 

"I can be whatever you want me to be," She'd smirk, ignoring the tightness in her chest and the growing desperation for a feeling of absolute safety. 

"Haven't you heard? You can't trust anyone these days," She'd half-laugh/half-cry, ignoring the feeling of having just betrayed a piece of her own soul and the growing desperation for whoever it was she was missing. 

The one Natasha can remember in flashing memories too fleeting to grasp and nightmares that leave her shaking with choked off screams caught in her throat. 

She can hear her in her dreams, a laughing, 'Alionovna!', paired with a gasping shout of the same name. She can almost feel the feather-light touches to her collarbones, travelling downwards, tickling the underside of her breasts. It hurts, how much she wants the dream to go on, to have some knowledge of what it felt like when those fingers went lower. 

But the dreams always change, turning into the nightmares. Turning into bullets echoing off cement walls, of needles burning in her blood, of watching a faceless body bleed out in her arms, while she was helpless to do anyhing but watch. 

There are days when she can't shake the nightmares.   
When she looks down at her hands, expecting to find them brown with dried blood.   
When she looks to her left, a question already formed and her lips open, but no one to ask.   
When she wakes up curled around a pillow, and she breathes in with a smile because, this, this is what content and happy and safe feels like. 

But then there isn't any scent of melon

("They literally want us to be mindless killers, Novna. This shampoo is, like, my one act of rebellion. And having an illicit affair with you. But that's it, I swear!") 

and it feels like a punch to the gut. Or what she imagines a punch to the gut would feel like, hadn't the she trained herself not to feel pain half a lifetime ago. 

And it would be one thing if she had something to hold onto, something specific and absolute, a piece of paper or a knife with the initials 'D.E.L'. 

But she didn't. And it killed her; slowly and agonisingly.   
It killed her that she didn't remember what those letters stood for.   
It killed her to remember so much but still so little. 

Because she knew she loved her.  
And she knew that whoever she was, she took three bullets for her, gave her a ring decorated with clear diamonds, and Natasha also knew she'd never been that happy.   
But she could never remember enough. 

Until now. 

"Darcy?"   
"Who the hell is Darcy?" 

And suddenly Natasha also knew what it felt like to have your breath knocked out of you. Because there she was, with eyes bluer than an ocean 

("You should write me a sonnet. I feel like you'd write good sonnet.")

And skin paler than milk, looking more fragile than paper 

("This is the worst sonnet ever. It's vaguely insulting!")

With three small, round scars dotting her lower stomach like a brand of... Something

("You need to go to sleep. Honestly, this is a travesty. Like, wow.")

And hair like dark chocolate 

("I've never heard that before. Like, ever. You get so insanely original when you're drunk. It's okay, though. You're a very cute drunk,"  
"'m not cute. 'm deadly. Could kill you, y'know."  
"Keep telling yourself that,")

And lips like cherries and blueberries 

("Ooh, my favourite!")

And Natasha couldn't breathe. Couldn't tear her eyes away from the ring hanging on a chain around her neck. Because resting between her collarbones, laid a silver ring decorated with black diamonds and another decorated with clear ones. 

"You. You're Darcy."  
"I don't like it." 

And it felt like a knife thorough her lungs, because she could remember this, too. How she was the strongest person Natasha had ever met, but their masters destroyed that name for her. 

"Elizabeth."  
"Don't like that either."

Natasha closed her eyes, blinking against the memories still assaulting her. 

"Eszrabeth. My Eszra."

She stared back at Natasha, hollow and empty eyes slowly waking up, a blank face slowly giving away to confusion, pain, grief and then... 

"Alionovna?" 

The Widows were united. 

 


End file.
